Lessons With The Lycanthrope
by A-Wild-Moron
Summary: Harry Potter has spent two years carefully cultivating a persona of unremarkable mediocrity, melting seamlessly into the background. Now in his third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he tries to maintain that facade, and for good reason. Unfortunately, a certain bushy haired girl has taken notice and proceeds to question his every move.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: Quick note: in this story, Harry does not wear glasses. That will become relevant in time, so just bear with me.**_

Lessons With The Lycanthrope.

Chapter 1 – Confrontations, Chocolate, and Beginnings.

Aboard the Hogwarts Express, in one particular compartment, sat three returning students in comfortable silence; or to be more accurate, two students sat in comfortable silence while the third slept with his head against the window.

Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley had very little to say anyway, having met up in Diagon Alley the previous day to buy their school supplies for the year and taking the opportunity to thoroughly catch up. They were content to spend the trip engrossed in their own pursuits; Hermione buried her head in a book while Ronald played chess against the disturbingly violent black king.

This lasted for approximately thirty minutes before Ron (as he preferred to be known) noticed his bookish friend's eyes darting back and forth between whatever she was pretending to read and their comatose travelling companion.

Ron was of the (silent) opinion that Hermione had retained some of the feline traits she had acquired in their disastrous attempt at Polyjuice potion the previous year. The proverbs about cats, curiosity, and a multitude of lives seemed to ring true at least.

When something piqued her interest, she would prod at it until she got a reaction and her curiosity was satisfied. If that something happened to be a giant killer snake, well, it was time to start carrying a small mirror around. Obviously.

Yes, the mirror had probably saved her life, and yes he was exceedingly glad she'd had it, but under normal circumstances she would have died. He considered one of her proverbial nine lives to have been used up stopping the basilisk's gaze from killing her.

Clearly her brush with death had not dampened her curiosity and she was itching to get back to prodding at a new mystery.

Not that Ron thought there was any mystery to Harry Potter. He did okay in class, kept his head down, and didn't really seem to talk to anybody. He'd been excited, initially, to share a dorm with the Boy-Who-Lived, but that enthusiasm had tapered when Potter had reacted to any attempt at starting a friendly conversation by packing up his things and walking away. He didn't look down at anybody, didn't sneer like Malfoy, and was perfectly happy to help a fellow student so long as conversation remained firmly scholastic.

Ron didn't consider Harry Potter a mystery; he considered him a loner and little else.

Ron moved his attention back to his chess game. "Leave him alone, Hermione." he said, eyes firmly fixed on his game.

He heard rather than saw her start of surprise at his breaking of the silence. "What? I wasn't going to-"

"Hermione." he interrupted. "Leave him alone." This time he met her eyes with a small frown.

Ron watched as her shoulders slumped and a disappointed pout grew on her lips. "But I want to _know_!" she whispered, book abandoned.

"Know what?" he asked with a shrug.

"Who is he really? What is he like? Why is he so quiet? Why won't he talk to anyone? Why does he seem to fall sick so often? How does he know the Headmaster? What's that pendant he wears? Who-"

"Wait, wait, wait." Ron interrupted again. "Sick? I've never noticed that he's been ill before."

Hermione sighed in apparent resignation. "Honestly Ronald, you share a dorm with him! Haven't you noticed that he shows up to class some days looking absolutely awful? Pale and like he hasn't slept in days, sometimes he even limps! It's all he can do to stay awake those days and the professors don't even comment! It's like they don't notice, even Snape says nothing!"

Ron scratched at his nose. "Erm, no. I haven't noticed any of that actually."

Hermione's face promptly buried itself in her hands. If Ron didn't know any better, he'd say she was actually despairing; at what, he had no idea. Good thing he knew better, then. His eyes narrowed as a new thought struck him.

"Where did you find the time to 'notice' Harry Potter anyway?" he asked.

Hermione's head left her hands, though there were traces of confusion in her expression. "Ron, we share classes, a House, and a common room with him, _you _share a dorm with him. I'm amazed that all of this has escaped you. Besides," she added with a toss of her hair, "he spends a lot of time in the library."

Ron rolled his eyes. Of course, the library explained everything. Still...

"You said something about a pendant too. How'd you see that?"

"Well I noticed that he hangs something around his neck with some twine or something. I can only assume that it's a pendant of some kind. What else could it possibly be?" There was a dangerous glint in Hermione's eye at this point. She was enjoying discussing her new pet project a little too much for Ron's comfort.

Thankfully, a distraction chose that exact moment to make itself known by slamming their compartment door open.

A distraction in the name of Draco Malfoy. It seemed it was time for their Biannual Train Taunting.

"If it isn't the weasel and the mudblood!" he sneered as he welcomed himself into their compartment, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle.

"Piss off, Malfoy" was Ron's eloquent reply. If anything, Malfoy's sneer seemed to grow wider.

"Tut tut ,Weasley, mind your language around your betters. I'd heard that your pathetic little family finally came into some money over the summer, but judging from the state of your robes I can't even imagine where it all went. The Janus Thickey Ward for the littlest weasel perhaps?"

Ron immediately stood, fists clenched, face red, and eyes a little wild. "Say that again, Malfoy, see what happens!" he yelled.

"Ron, no!" Hermione appealed, "You'll get us in trouble before the year has even started!"

Malfoy's sneer threatened to split his face before Ron could. "You should listen to your pet mudblood, weasel. Even the mongrel knows her place better than you do."

A low rumbling sound filled the compartment, surprising all of them. They turned to find Harry Potter sitting with his head in his hands, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. The sound seemed to be emanating from somewhere within Potter's throat; the only thing Ron could liken that sound to was a growl, one somewhere between irritation, frustration, and anger.

He wasn't sure where he'd learned to differentiate growls, but he knew he didn't want to annoy it's source right now.

Draco, of course, was all too delighted to oblige.

"Potter!" he crowed. "So sorry to wake you. I didn't realise you were here, you see. It looks like you finally managed to make some friends." Malfoy took a moment to mockingly look over Ron and Hermione, as though inspecting them for the first time.

"A mudblood and a disgrace to the word 'wizard'. Looks like you'll fit in well with these two. You know, I did offer to help you pick the right sorts back in our first year; maybe if you'd taken me up on my offer then, you wouldn't be stuck here now."

Potter sighed quietly, and slowly rose to his feet. Ron heard his spine _crack _as it settled. He'd never noticed before, maybe it was Hermione's observations worming their way into his head, but there was something fundamentally different about the way Potter moved. It wasn't _wrong _exactly, but there was an economy of movement that most people lacked, every movement was exact and lacking in the casual exuberance of most thirteen year old boys.

There was something deep inside Ron that told him not to aggravate Potter at this moment. Something that told him to lie low and hope he didn't turn his gaze on you. Something that told him to hide.

He didn't like that feeling and firmly stamped it down as Potter turned to Malfoy and met his eye.

The effect was instantaneous. A barely perceptible hiss was heard as Malfoy drew in air through his teeth. Whatever it was that told Ron to hide was doing the same for Malfoy. Ron was too stubborn to listen, Malfoy too proud.

All the same, Ron did not want to be on the receiving end of that glare. Even without direct contact, he could tell there was an almost unnatural intensity to it, an inherent threat of violence. Ron shuddered involuntarily; the atmosphere felt _dangerous_.

"Think you're something special, Potter?" Malfoy spat. In any other situation, Ron would have gloated in the slight tremor that ran through Malfoy's voice as he spoke. Not today.

"Malfoy," Potter began, never breaking eye contact, "I didn't get enough sleep last night to want to deal with trash like you. I told you two years ago that your 'help' was neither wanted nor appreciated, and that remains true to this day. Leave, or your cronies will have to find a new body to guard."

He didn't shout, he didn't yell, he didn't clench his fists or get red in the face; he spoke. As though every word were an irrefutable truth. His voice was steady, if a little weary, his tone flat, his posture relaxed as though nothing could conceivably touch him.

Anyone who could talk down to a Malfoy like that was automatically in Ron's good books.

"This isn't over." Malfoy scowled before turning and making a hasty retreat, slamming the compartment door behind him again.

In the silence that followed, Ron noticed that Hermione was hiding behind her book; he hadn't seen when she'd made her retreat, but he had a good idea of when she'd done so.

Harry Potter, meanwhile, returned to his seat, placed his head against the window once more and closed his eyes; apparently willing to completely ignore the other two occupants.

Hermione squeaked. At Ron's inquiring look, she snapped her book closed with a frustrated huff and tried again. "We're sorry for waking you." she said in a much more comprehensible voice.

Harry sighed. "Don't worry about it." he replied, eyes still closed. "Malfoy's an obnoxious arse, it was going to happen one way or another."

"Still, we are sorry."

Harry didn't respond, plunging the compartment into silence once more.

* * *

Hours later, when the surrounding countryside was shrouded by dark clouds and heavy rain and when they were assured that Harry was once again sleeping, Ron and Hermione conversed in constrained whispers.

"What _was _that?" Ron asked.

Hermione frowned. "I'm not sure. I've heard of witches and wizards who could project a magical aura, but only the most powerful magical beings can bring one to bear."

"I've never felt anything like that before," Ron said with a shiver, "but it didn't feel like it came from outside. It was something in _me_ that reacted, not something from him, you know?"

Hermione nodded glumly.

"Still want to interrogate him?" Ron queried with a small smile.

Hermione worried at her bottom lip for a minute before slowly, cautiously nodding. "Carefully." she said. "Very, very carefully."

A few more minutes of contemplative silence passed before they noticed that the train was slowing.

"We can't be at Hogsmead already, can we?" Ron asked, confusion etched on his face.

Hermione shook her head. "No, it's too soon. There's at least another hour of travel before we should start slowing."

When the train rolled to a complete stop, Ron began to worry.

"Why are stopping in the middle of nowhere?" he asked, "You don't think the track's out, do you?"

"I wouldn't imagine so. The Hogwarts Express is the only train to use this track, so there wouldn't be any problems with maintaining it magically."

"So why are we stopping?"

"I have no idea." Hermione insisted, with an expression that could only be called nonplussed.

A few unusually tense minutes passed as the friends found themselves without anything to say and the sleeper remained asleep. A gradual decrease in temperature was noted without comment as they grew ever more despondent, a sourceless feeling of hopelessness overpowering whatever cheer they had previously felt. Indeed, before long, it felt as though they had never felt, nor would they ever again feel, anything positive.

Time found Hermione curled up in a corner, fearful thoughts of imminent rejection cycling endlessly in her mind. She was going to arrive at Hogwarts and be turned away, she was sure, her muggleborn ways no longer tolerated, her contamination swept from the halls as the purebloods laughed at her failure.

Ron sat with his head in his hands as the oppressive weight of his elder siblings' shadows loomed over him. He could never hope to match up to them. Bill's popularity, Charlie's Quidditch skill, Percy's intelligence and work ethic, the twins' unique genius. He'd always be the disappointment, the one who never became his own person.

Harry Potter twitched and mumbled and shivered in his sleep. Whatever force held the other two in misery, keeping him trapped in his own dreams.

None took notice as their compartment door slid open once more, nor did they here the eerie rattling of breath that seemed to echo in the silence, nor did two react as a cloaked figure entered and bent over the third, so wrapped in their own nightmares were they.

A flash of silver in the dark, an unearthly screech as it impacted the shrouded body, a lessening of the despair as it fled in an oddly flowing motion.

Hermione Granger came back to herself to the sight of a block of chocolate being waved in front of her face. She jerked her head up to meet the green, tired looking eyes of a rather shabbily dressed older man with light brown hair flecked through with grey. He smiled indulgently at her apparent confusion – _smiled,_ as though there was absolutely nothing wrong! - and pressed the chocolate into her hands.

"Eat up." he said in a politely insistent voice, "It'll make you feel better."

Hermione, not really in the mood for defiance, obediently took a small bite. This was immediately followed by much larger bite as she did, in fact, feel much better after her first. The man nodded encouragingly at her and left her alone, presumably to see to the others in the compartment. Looking around, she spotted Ron munching morosely on his own chocolate, which left...

The Mysterious Giver of Chocolate, as Hermione had temporarily tagged him, was attempting to shake Harry Potter awake. Looking at him, Hermione could tell he hadn't fared very well in whatever had befallen them. He was pale, or paler than he had been, sweating, and mumbling quietly in his sleep.

The man – because really, her impromptu moniker was a little ridiculous – gently shifted him away from the window and settled him into his seat. Removing his wand from a pocket, he then pointed it at Potter's chest.

"_Rennervate_." he mumbled, shooting a red light straight at Potter. When Potter failed to react, the man frowned thoughtfully and tapped his wand against his hand.

"Odd, that should have worked." he said. He spent another minute in pensive silence, before turning to the others with a soothing smile on his face. She couldn't really explain why, but Hermione was immediately suspicious. She'd spent two years around the Weasley twins, and expressions like that often preceded mayhem.

"Please refrain from panicking." he cheerfully instructed them. He then raised his empty hand and _slapped Harry Potter!_ - who immediately gasped awake.

Hermione marvelled at the simplicity of it. Sometimes magic didn't have all the answers, she supposed; something she should really know already, having witnessed the various archaisms of magical Britain over the last two years of her education at Hogwarts. Some solid practicality could do some real good among the ancient traditions that seemed to determine how everything worked. Tradition was all well and good, but it could put a real dampener on progress; something the magical population was in desperate need of in her opinion.

Somewhere in the midst of her ruminations on the seemingly timeless nature of magical Britain – and really, this chocolate was doing an excellent job of putting her back to normal – Harry Potter leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, still mumbling to himself.

"Yes, yes, all just a dream." the man agreed good naturedly with the boy. "Now, I have some chocolate here for you. I suggest you eat it, it should chase away the last of the cobwebs and help you get back to normal."

Potter rubbed at his face before raising it to see the proffered chocolate. Something changed in the man's demeanour then. It was almost imperceptible, but Hermione had been watching closely. He seemed to tense slightly, his eyes widened, his jaw clenched, his hand froze until Potter took the chocolate, then went entirely limp as it left his grasp. Hermione was no expert in such things, but she thought she could recognise shock when she saw it, maybe with a little panic mixed in. Potter, apparently still groggy, didn't seem to notice despite his closer proximity.

"Right, well, I should – erm – check on the rest of the train, make sure no one else was badly affected. Eat your chocolate, get well, and have fun!" he rambled off before practically running from the compartment.

Have fun? Oh, there was definitely an element of panic in his retreat. No doubt about it. What exactly about Harry Potter had caused a grown man to panic and flee? For that matter, who was that man and what was he doing on the Hogwarts Express? The only other adults Hermione had ever seen aboard the train were the lady with the cart and the conductor.

What happened and how was he connected with it? Did he drive off whatever had caused it or did he summon it? Why was he conveniently carrying all that chocolate? If he wasn't responsible, did he know beforehand and come prepared? Did Dumbledore know about him? She supposed so, otherwise how would he get aboard? Unless he was an infiltrator who took an opportunity to ingratiate himself with some grateful students.

Hermione sighed internally. So many questions, so many mysteries, and they weren't even at Hogsmead yet. She ignored that little part of herself that was cheerfully looking forward to unravelling it all. She wasn't enjoying herself with all this intrigue. No, certainly not.

Ron was scratching at his nose. "Wait, who was that bloke?" he asked.

Hermione stared at him in absolute silence for several seconds before deciding that she needed a distraction before something bad happened to Ronald that she could not be blamed for.

Her gaze moved to Harry Potter who was gingerly rubbing at his cheek, slightly more awake than before. He looked somewhat confused.

_Please don't,_ she silently pleaded.

"Did something happen while I was asleep?" he asked innocently.

Hermione closed her eyes and tried – really, genuinely tried – not to despair for the male half of the population. She almost managed to convince herself that she was successful. Almost.

* * *

The final hour of their journey was spent pretending to be occupied by anything other than their thoughts. Harry leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed, though they would occasionally blink open and stare out the window for a minute or two before drifting closed again.

Hermione opened her book and continually scanned the same page as though new words would appear there if she only looked hard enough. She distractedly flipped the page perhaps twice in that hour; it was not a particularly difficult read.

Ron bent his head over his chess set with a frown of concentration. One could be forgiven for assuming he was absorbed in the game had the pieces had returned to, and remained in, their starting places. Not even the most cautious of chess masters spent an hour on the opening move.

As the train slowed once again, three heads turned to the window and were reassured by the lights outside that they were in fact at the end of their journey and were not about to be enveloped in freezing emptiness once again.

Outside the train, the weather battered at anyone not clever enough to stay behind thick walls; which on this particular night, meant the entire student population of Hogwarts. Luckily, Hermione had the foresight to pack an umbrella under which she and Ron huddled. Harry wandered away from them, seemingly unconcerned with the elements' earnest attempts at drowning the land dwellers and washing away their heathen constructs.

The usual shout of "Firs' years, this way!" echoed around the station from the Hogwarts Gamekeeper, Hagrid. The first years were going to have to cross the lake in driving winds and pouring rain, something for which Hermione did not envy them. That first sighting of the castle was a very special memory, it had made it all so immediate and real. There she'd been on a little boat moving without oars, gliding serenely across a lake to a magical castle where she'd learn to fix everything that was wrong with the world. A little girl's dream, but then she _had _been a little girl at the time.

This years intake of new students would probably miss all that. The lake was likely to be rough, the journey miserable, the view distorted. It was a shame really. She considered it a right of passage of sorts.

Ah well.

Securing a carriage with Ron and a few older Ravenclaws, Hermione turned her mind to the year ahead. Her class schedule was likely to be hectic, assuming Professor McGonagall found a way to make it work; she didn't _need_ to take every class, but it all seemed so interesting. There were so many different ways to apply magic, surely it could only help her to at least explore as many avenues as possible.

If that didn't work out, she had her two new mysteries to investigate. Well, one new mystery and one neglected one. It was odd, she thought, that she had spent two years in relatively close proximity to Harry Potter and knew absolutely nothing about him. She'd spoken with him a time or two, but those interactions could hardly be called personal by any stretch of the imagination. They had discussed school work: classes, assignments, and study patterns; nothing that would tell her anything about him as a person. She was frankly rather amazed that he'd managed to avoid her curiosity for so long. That had all changed today, of course. Seeing him on the train up close had triggered something in her, something that told her there was something different about Harry Potter.

Different was good. Different was interesting. Different was worthy of investigating.

Yes, she thought rather smugly, this year was already shaping up to be very satisfying.


	2. Daydreams, Danger, and Determination

**Chapter 2 – Daydreams, Danger, and Determination**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did I would be using all of my money to follow summer like some kind of migratory, flightless bird rather than dreading the approach of winter.**

Harry Potter was one of the first down to the Great Hall on the morning following the Welcoming Feast. He was an habitually early riser, always up before his dorm mates and even most of his House. It wasn't the 'crack of dawn' kind of early, he was still a teenager after all, but early enough that the only other students in the Great Hall when he arrived for breakfast were some of the OWL and NEWT students and a few particularly zealous Ravenclaws.

Harry shuffled over to the Gryffindor table and slumped into the nearest vacant seat, which turned out to be the very first seat he came across since the vast majority of Gryffindor House preferred to lie in as long as possible. It wasn't laziness, they professed matter of factly, it was an issue of productivity; a more rested mind was more capable of absorbing information. Their sincere smiles fooled no one.

Harry prepared a bowl of porridge for himself and, in a fit of ingenuity only seen when early morning fatigue met the economy of laziness, cut up some bacon and threw that into the bowl too. He may be an early riser, but Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. The juxtaposition of tastes and textures was... _interesting._ He refrained from thinking about it too much, but vowed to leave experimentation to the professionals from then on. He refused to let the fruits of his labours go to waste though, and gamely finished the bowl, rounding out his breakfast by lingering over some toast and orange juice. What wizards had against citrus fruits that made them turn to pumpkins for their beverages Harry had no idea, but he wasn't fan of their choice. Maybe the Goblins found a vicious use for oranges during one of their apparently numerous rebellions and the wizards had shunned the fruit ever since? He'd ask Professor Binns but he was afraid he might actually be right and that could lead to the ghostly History of Magic teacher lecturing about the uses of fruit in Goblin warfare and Harry had enough trouble staying awake in that class as it was. No, a simple visit to the kitchens in his first year had solved that particular problem; it was best to leave it be for now.

As Harry's mind inevitably began to contemplate how one could possibly effectively weaponise various fruits, the Great Hall began to fill up as most of the school came down to breakfast. Shortly thereafter, Harry's quiet reflections were interrupted by an explosion of noise overhead as the morning post arrived. Most of the owls were carrying the morning's Daily Prophet, or a letter for a new first year congratulating them on acceptance into their new House. Harry wasn't entirely sure why that was worthy of congratulation, putting on a hat wasn't exactly an arduous task. He put it down to people being weird and families even weirder and cast his eye over the owls again, searching for one in particular.

Ah, there it was. The Malfoy family owl carried itself with such pomposity there was no mistaking to whom it belonged. It carried a large package for Draco, no doubt full of treats and letters of motherly affection. Harry smothered a snicker at the thought. Draco tried to pull off the kind of decorum that his father wrapped himself in, but it was hard to take him seriously when he was so obviously mothered outrageously. If Mrs. Malfoy was anything like Petunia Dursley, Draco probably had his own cute little nicknames like Drakey-kins or Drakers or something equally ridiculous. Harry shuddered. If anyone tried to smother him like that, he'd have to find the nearest toilet and spend a couple of hours dry heaving over it.

Turning away with a grimace of distaste, he met the unblinking yellow stare of his own owl, Hedwig. No, that implied that Hedwig belonged to him and that was almost laughably inaccurate. Hedwig, to put it simply, was a terror. She gave off a '_you're stuck in here with me_' kind of vibe and Harry wasn't afraid to admit that she was a little intimidating. The streak of red that adorned her head this morning was disturbingly unsurprising. Some new owl must have annoyed her in some way, since all the current residents of the owlery were understandably wary of her and kept a healthy distance. She was a little bit crazy. Harry knew better than to allow Hagrid to purchase animals for him now.

Hedwig's head tilted sharply in a silent demand that Harry translated as '_Pay up or face the consequences_' before he started to rip up some bacon and feed her piece by piece. After having her fill, Hedwig dipped her head in some water Harry had ready and flew off. He had learned not to give her any of his orange juice; the last time he did that, it took the school three months to coax the other owls back into the owlery, and there was still one unaccounted for. Hedwig spent the first week of those months hidden in his dorm covered in blood that she wore like war paint, twitching at every sound, and occasionally making noises that Harry assumed were the owl version of a cackle. He supposed that was when her secret reign of terror started among the owl population of Hogwarts, a reign he was helpless to stop. He'd considered changing her name to Lady Hedwig I of Hogwarts, but didn't want to give her any ideas.

As the distraction of Hedwig left, Harry became aware of eyes on him. Nothing like last night, where it had felt that every set of eyes present for the feast had watched his every move. His dreams that night had consisted of himself sitting alone in the Great Hall while the enchanted ceiling showed a multitude of eyes staring down at him rather than the sky as it was supposed to show.

It wasn't unusual for people to watch him, but that didn't mean that he appreciated it or that he was comfortable with it; in fact, it was the last thing that he wanted. Consistent observation ran the risk of discovery and he could not afford discovery.

Feeling slightly short of breath, he clutched at the pendant under his robes and felt a measure of calm return to him. Panic was pointless, it served no purpose other than to bring suspicion down on him. There was no way for anyone to figure it out, there were safeguards and backup plans, explanations and excuses. Everything was fine.

Taking a deep breath, Harry looked around surreptitously for whoever was watching him, starting at his own House table. There, the Granger girl was openly staring at him, a frown of concentration on her brow. They had shared a few brief words on the train, nothing of any real consequence, he hadn't exactly been in any condition for any kind of philosophical discussion. The notorious know-it-all was probably going through the same Boy-Who-Lived curiosity that most of his year went through in first year. He'd deal with it the same way he always did: ignore her. Most people gave up in minutes, deciding he was rude or arrogant or mentally deficient in some way, or all of the above. Harry himself couldn't care less what they thought of him so long as they left him alone.

The youngest Weasley was throwing him the occasional glance before quickly ducking away again. Nothing to worry about, he decided; most of the new first years, those raised in magical families at least, were doing the same. They'd get over it eventually. That the Weasley girl was still at it in second year was a little unusual, but so long as it didn't go any further than painfully obvious attempts at stealthy looks, Harry was happy enough to let it be.

The only other eyes he could feel were coming from the staff table. Dumbledore was chatting merrily with Professor McGonagall, Professors Flitwick and Sprout were conversing amicably, and Snape was doing his usual 'ignore Harry Potter's existence' routine. Newly made Professor Hagrid's attention was riveted on whatever he was cradling under the table, a look of beatific contentment on his face which probably indicated the presence of something most people would consider deadly and Hagrid would call 'adorable'. That was the word he'd used to describe Hedwig.

The Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, Astronomy, and Divination professors had yet to make an appearance, which left the new Defence Against The Dark Arts professor. Harry turned a wary eye his way and, sure enough, the man was watching him. He vaguely recalled the man from the incident on the train, something about chocolate – he wasn't really sure, hadn't really been all there at the time. It was becoming a running theme in Harry's life that the Defence teachers would show an inordinate amount of interest in him, whether they wanted to kill him or use his fame to bolster their own media images. This Professor Lupin was a little too shabby to have a presence in the media, unfortunately.

Oh well. What was one more murder attempt in the grand scheme of things?

Harry spent a few productive minutes imagining inventive ways to avoid death when the new Defence teacher inevitably started throwing curses around the Great Hall, before he noticed that the class timetables were being handed out by Professor McGonagall. Fun times were over, it seemed. When the professor reached him she gave him a sympathetic look, though he doubted it was in relation to his academia to fun times ratio.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter. How are you feeling today?" she asked, handing him his own timetable.

Harry gave a small shrug in response, "Good morning, Professor. I'm alright, thank you. A few lingering aches, but serviceable overall, I suppose."

"Glad to hear it, Mr. Potter." she said, before casting a quick, worried look to the staff table. "Professor Dumbledore would like to see you before your first class this morning. He will provide a note explaining your lateness should it prove necessary. He also told me to inform you that he developed a fondness for 'Haribo' over the summer, whatever that is."

Harry blinked at her. "Right. Haribo. Of course." _Why is it always sweets? _He asked himself silently.

"I suggest you start making your way to his office now, Mr. Potter." McGonagall said, before continuing on her way with more timetables.

Harry sighed and gathered his things before leaving the Great Hall. He was familiar enough with the castle and the Headmaster's office to know his way there without much thought. He only hoped Fawkes had gotten over Hedwig's attempted theft of his ashes. Harry wasn't sure what Hedwig thought she could do with phoenix ash, he only hoped it wasn't explosive. God only knew what Hedwig would do with magical gun powder. Fawkes had given Harry the cold shoulder for most of his second year over the incident, refusing to accept that Harry had no control over the psychotic bird.

* * *

It was a somewhat pessimistic Harry Potter who arrived at the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. Fawkes was, for all intents and purposes, immortal, and it was well documented that immortal beings held grudges. He'd have to be ready to dodge fireballs as soon as he entered the office.

"Haribo?" he asked the gargoyle with a quirked eyebrow.

The gargoyle just shrugged and jumped aside, allowing Harry to access the winding staircase leading to the office. When he reached the top, he drew in a breath to steady himself and knocked.

"Enter." a voice replied.

Harry barged through the door, immediately rolling to the side and withdrawing his wand from a pocket. He landed on one knee, wand extended and a shield spell on the tip of his tongue.

A light chuckle drew his attention to the lone desk in the room and the man seated behind it. Albus Dumbledore sat with his hands clasped in front of him and a genial smile on his lip. He wore gaudy purple robes with a pattern of crescent moons and stars and, as he stood, Harry noticed he had his long white beard tucked securely into his belt.

"I assure you, Harry," he said, "that Fawkes bears you no ill will. Indeed, even if he did, he would not try to hurt you. Regardless, as I am sure you can see, he is not here."

"I'm sorry, sir." Harry said while rising back to his feet and putting away his wand. "I didn't want to risk catching fire on my first day back at school. Have to give it at least a month, let Poppy – er, Madam Pomfrey, I mean – have a little respite before the usual stuff starts happening."

"Most generous of you, Harry." said Dumbledore, stroking at his beard with one hand. "Though I confess I am somewhat surprised that you consider your unfortunate adventures to be the usual state of affairs."

Harry could only shrug helplessly at that. Dumbledore gave a quiet sigh before continuing.

"Ah well, we must move on from such things and discuss what I called you up here for. Please, have a seat Harry, unless you feel you may need to dodge an unexpected attack from any fire aspected birds." he said, eyes twinkling merrily.

Harry silently took a seat opposite the Headmaster as Dumbledore once more sat in his own. There was a moment of silence – or a moment as silent as possible in Albus Dumbledore's office with it's clicking and whirring devices – as each regarded the other.

"Now, before we begin, I have an important question for you, Harry." Dumbledore said seriously.

"Yes, sir?"

"Lemon Drop?"

"I – What?"

"Would you like a Lemon Drop?" the aged Headmaster asked, gesturing to an oddly ornate bowl of the sweets on his desk.

Harry stared bemusedly at the bowl for a moment before shrugging again, "Sure, why not?" he acquiesced, taking one from the bowl. Dumbledore blinked at him.

"Really?" he asked. Harry paused, hand half way to his mouth.

"Shouldn't I?"

"No, please go right ahead." Dumbledore encouraged him, frowning slightly at the bowl. "It just occurs to me that, in all my time as Headmaster, I don't think anyone has ever taken me up on that offer. I wonder if they don't trust me not to have laced them with something, or if wizard kind has some kind of prejudice against lemons that I have not been made aware of?" he mused. Harry nodded understandingly.

"I've been wondering the same thing about oranges." he supplied, popping the sweet into his mouth. "Whose idea was pumpkin juice?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. Dumbledore's eyes, however, brightened noticeably.

"Ah, now _that _is a surprisingly riveting tale of underhanded deals, cutthroat business, and bitter betrayal! You see, in 1837 a company called London Pumpkins & Sons purchased-" he seemed to catch himself there, "Well, that's not why we are here; there is, however, an excellent book on the matter, written by a good friend of mine in fact, that can be purchased from Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley!" he provided enthusiastically. Harry couldn't stop his eyebrow from rising.

"Sir, are you trying to sell me a book?" he asked.

"Nonsense, Harry, nonsense!" Dumbledore exclaimed jovially. "Dear me, but we are terribly good at distracting ourselves from the matter at hand."

Harry shrugged again and noticed that it had become something of a habit recently. He wondered if it was a teenage thing, or if he really was just that lacking in basic communication skills; either way, Dumbledore didn't seem to mind, so he supposed it didn't really matter. As for the distractions; they got him out of class for longer, so he wasn't going to complain. He was fairly certain that that sentiment was almost universal and most definitely not a teenage thing.

There was a definite shift in the air as Dumbledore's demeanour became decidedly serious. It was sometimes scary how Dumbledore's mood seemed to affect the very air in a room. Harry paid close attention to such changes as they set the parameters for what was acceptable in a discussion. Levity had it's place, and right now that place was not the Headmaster's office.

"Now Harry, we do have some serious things to discuss. Tell me, what have you heard about Sirius Black?" Dumbledore asked. Harry considered it for a moment. The name was oddly familiar.

"Isn't that the man who escaped from prison recently? I heard about him on the muggle news."

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded, "but what the muggle news did not report is that Sirius Black is a wizard and that he escaped from the wizard prison, Azkaban." Harry frowned at that.

"Okay, but if he escaped from a wizard prison, how did the muggles hear about him? I thought there was no contact between the wizarding and muggle worlds."

"There is some contact at various levels of government, in case there is some emergency that could affect both sides. In this case, the Minister of Magic informed the muggle Prime Minister of Black's escape as he was deemed to be a threat not only to wizards, but to the muggle population as well." Dumbledore explained.

"Sounds serious."

"It is." the Headmaster agreed. "In his final act before his arrest, Black killed thirteen people with a single spell. Twelve muggles and one wizard died that day. All that was found of the wizard, Peter Pettigrew, was a single finger." Dumbledore leaned forward on his desk.

"The reason I bring this up, Harry, is that Sirius Black was one of Lord Voldemort's most loyal followers and a very powerful wizard in his own right. Do you understand why I am telling you this, Harry? He asked with a piercing gaze that felt as though it could cut to the very soul of a person. Harry swallowed.

"You think he's coming after me?" he asked.

"I do. He has spent twelve years in Azkaban; lesser men have lost their minds to the Dementor's effects within months in that awful place. It is quite possible that he has lost all semblence of reason and seeks to break into Hogwarts to do you harm. I do not mean to worry you, Harry," he added in a gentle tone, "but you must understand the gravity of the situation."

"You heard me explain the presence of the Dementors at the feast last night?" He went on, "I was against the idea, but the Minister insisted they be stationed here and I had little say in the matter. He hopes to recapture Black quickly and I can not blame him for that, I only wish he had not forced the creatures upon us here. Be very careful of the Dementors, Harry. They may guard Azkaban, and now Hogwarts, but they are not human in any sense of the word. I know you are fond of your father's cloak and I will not take it from you, but I must forbid wandering after curfew, it is not worth the loss of your life or your soul."

"I understand, sir." Harry said. "But what about-"

"Worry not, Harry. Extra protections have been raised to prevent entry by anyone else at that location, be they man or beast, or something else." Dumbldore reassured him. Harry nodded, glad to have the Headmaster's help.

"I understand that this is a lot to take in. If you wish to have some time, to skip a class or two, I can excuse you and provide the appropriate notification to your professors."

"No, sir," Harry declined with a shake of his head, "I have Arithmancy right now and I shouldn't miss the entire first class of a new subject." Dumbledore smiled at him benignly.

"Very well, Harry. I will write you a note to explain your tardiness to Professor Vector and you can be on your way."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

Hermione Granger was currently sitting in Arithmancy almost buzzing with excitement. That she was also currently sitting in both Muggle Studies and Divination was neither here nor there; it was all so _exciting! _She could turn back time! And she was authorized by the government to use it for study! Never had she been so glad to be a witch.

She was ever so grateful to Professor McGonagall for organising this. It couldn't have been easy and it showed a great deal of trust to hand such a thing to a thirteen year old student. She shuddered to think what could happen if Ron, or God forbid the twins, got a hold of a Time Turner. Chaos. Absolute chaos in the form of either a paradox wiping Ron from reality or the twins' personal brand of mayhem in multiple places simultaneously. She wasn't sure which would be worse.

No, this was an opportunity she refused to squander. Professor McGonagall gave her this chance to further her studies and she was going to excel in everything to prove herself worthy of the Professor's trust!

That was apparently not an attitude shared by one Harry Potter. Hermione had known that she would share some her elective classes with the unsociable boy, what she hadn't realised was what an opportunity it could be until his name was called from the attendance roll at the beginning of the Arithmancy class. It would be an excellent chance to speed her – 'investigation' was such a cold word, but it would have to serve until she could find an appropriate replacement.

Of course, that plan was neatly scuppered when Harry simply didn't show up to class. It was now more than half an hour since attendance had been called, and Professor Vector was well into her introductory lecture on what would be covered in the course, what was expected of them, and the general purpose of Arithmancy. Hermione was busy taking copious notes while another part of her mind occupied itself by being thoroughly unimpressed by Harry Potter's lack of scholary conviction; so much so that she almost missed the knock that sounded from the door just before it opened.

In walked the subject of part of her highly compartmentalised mind, Harry Potter, as casual as though he were taking a stroll through the park. Hermione frowned in disapproval of his cavalier attitude to punctuality; how could he hope to maintain a career if he couldn't even show up to class on time?

Harry approached the Professor at her desk and handed her a piece of folded parchment with a few quiet words. Professor Vector finished reading through the parchment with a nod, whereupon she and Potter held a short, quiet discussion.

The parchment suggested that Potter had a reason for being so late, and the Professor's apparent acceptance of whatever was written there made it clear it was a perfectly valid reason. Perhaps he wasn't so bad then? Hermione had noted that he was frequently ill or indisposed in some way, maybe he simply had to check in with Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing for some kind of check up? Yes, she decided resolutely, that was likely the cause. She really shouldn't form opinions on people so quickly, especially people she had resolved to get to know. It was poor form to dismiss someone based on a single incident, she of all people should know that.

Apparently satisfied, Professor Vector directed Potter to the only remaining seat, incidentally the one right next to Hermione. Perfect. She could open a line of dialogue by offering to bring him up to speed on what he'd missed, perhaps offer him a copy of her notes to establish a sense of trust and gratitude.

When he'd taken his seat, Hermione waited for him to retrieve his books and writing equipment impatiently. She wished he would move faster, the sooner she could talk to him the sooner she could begin to unravel the mystery. Finally, when it seemed he was drawing it out with deliberate slowness, Harry finally finished his preparations. Hermione pounced.

"Excuse me? You missed some of Professor Vector's lecture. I've taken plenty of notes, I can share if you like or I could simply talk you through them if you prefer?" Perfect. Polite, helpful, and open. He had no reason to refuse and that would allow an opening to start a real conversation. It was almost textbook in execution. Though if someone were to write a textbook on starting friendships, that would be very much appreciated by the young Gryffindor, she hadn't been all that successful in her short life thus far.

Harry turned his head to look at her and Hermione couldn't help the small smile that crept over her features. Success was always nice, no matter the endeavour.

He then looked away, face completely blank, voice silent, eyes solidly on the Professor. Hermione's jaw dropped.

_Did he just **dismiss **me?! _She silently raged. _No, no, calm down. _She told herself with a silent inhalation of air. She had a backup plan, she always did. It was simply a matter of chipping away at his defenses. She **would **figure this out, one way or another.

Helpful overtures had failed. It was time for more... aggressive negotiations. Operation Persistently Pester Potter_ – _or P3 as she affectionately called it – was a go.

It was unfortunate for Harry Potter that Hermione Granger had the kind of drive that freight trains strove for. When her ire was raised, she hit like one too. Repeatedly.

* * *

**AN: Woah, tone shift alert.**

**"But Moron, what took you so long to get this chapter out? It's been almost a month."**

**Well children, there are two reasons for that:**  
**1. I wasn't happy with the first version of this chapter and scrapped it entirely about halfway through.**

**2. I suffer from a debilitating condition known as ISuckAtWriting-itis. It makes me hit walls head on and it can sometimes take me a while to clamber over them**

**Til next time.**


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